My poor dog. She used to be the sole object of our combined devotion, and now she's routinely ignored, told to get!, and her stank-breath is no longer tolerated without vigorous criticism ("Jeeeeeeeeeeesus, dog!").I still love her-how could you not, there's not an unlovable bone in her body-but I sure don't have a shred of patience for her. After a long day of toddler-wrangling, I cannot stand to have one more creature doing something annoying nearby. If she's licking herself, I howl for her to stop; if she's padding around the kitchen, I yell for her to sit down already. When she does her usual routine of coming inside from the backyard and immediately grabbing the nearest shoe with Labby excitement, I grouse about how tired I am of picking up shoes, DAMMIT DOG YOU DROP THAT RIGHT NOW.
Then Riley imitates me: "Doggy DWOP it, WIGHT NOW." Shaking his little finger at her, while she wags her tail apologetically, unsure what all the fuss is about.
Oh, Dog. I'm sorry I've been impatient, that we haven't shown you the attention you deserve. I'm sorry your face is white and your bones ache and instead of a golden retirement, you're in the House of Toddler. I'm sorry we're about to bring another tiny, squalling human into your life. I'm sorry we don't feed you steak scraps more often (but O! the gas, it is horrifying).
In the spring, there will be more Frisbee time, and walks with stroller and leash. I promise.Permalink | Email this | Linking Blogs | Comments
